


Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 08:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14184981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Nobody has to know.”Four words, three syllables at the top end and one and one and one to finish out, and a beat that marched on long after silence stepped between them.Set in 1987.





	Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fouroux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/gifts).



> Hi all, and welcome to this angst-fest that I've been working on for about two and a half weeks now in spurts between uni! It's pretty heavy and it's all Inchy's fault, since the idea was basically theirs, so yes, here we are. I hope you all enjoy, and I know it's pretty long, but hey . . . this is who I am. Heavy angst and long-ass fics, it's what keeps me alive. So yes, here we are, song title comes from the amazing song of the same name by Snow Patrol (that I've actually used as a title for a Supernatural fic in the past, but SHH, it's a great title, okay? And it works SO WELL IN CONTEXT, LIKE GO LISTEN TO IT PLZ BEFORE/AFTER READING THIS)
> 
> Also, just a short note here to quietly screech about this *technically* being my 50th U2 fic--and I say technically, because it's the 48th one I've posted here, but, yes, 50th that I've written. Which is kinda actually really FUCKING INSANE LIKE HOW DID I WRITE THAT MANY, WHAT IS MY LIFE? It's kinda amazing, and I am super duper proud of it. So here's to 50 more, eh? Love to you all, couldn't have done it without ya xxx

“Nobody has to know.”

Four words, three syllables at the top end and one and one and one to finish out, and a beat that marched on long after silence stepped between them in a way that had almost seemed inconceivable until it happened. Four words with an intent behind them that could not be construed in any other way, no matter how unsure they sounded leaving Bono’s lips.

The expression on his face, the searching glance that lingered, the offer on show. What else could Edge do but look right on back, with his own searching glance? He didn’t need a mirror to know what expression he was wearing. It was right there in the way Bono reacted to him.

But before any suggestion could be made, it had been the two of them looking to air their sorrows over a drink or ten, having left the cold of the East Coast, the bitter breeze that had been catching, far behind. They were West Coast folk now. Briefly, they belonged only to the people of Oakland and not to themselves. In the blink of an eye, they would be known by Los Angeles, and then it would be on with the storm, trailing away to a beast of a different kind, to places that couldn’t possibly hold a candle to the chill found in Long Island.

“It’s the same shit, day in day out,” Aislinn had told him not long before the decision had been made. “What can I do? What do you _suggest_ I do with two little girls in the middle of winter, in a place like this? They’re miserable,” she had said, but all Edge had heard was _how can I escape this?_

Her smile, her kiss had been genuine though, before she’d left. “I’ll miss you so much,” she had said in a way that Edge could only cling to. And then there had been Ali. Her smile, her tears. A bigger part of her hadn’t wanted to leave Bono behind. But she had. They both had, and for now all that was left were the nights ahead.

There were things that could be said between them after a few drinks, admittances that would leave Edge with the sense of a life falling apart if he ever were to say them sober. It was only when that unsteady feeling had started to hit that it even occurred to him to tell Bono, “I don’t know how much longer we can make it through like this. I don’t know what to do.”

It hadn’t really been what he’d wanted to say. The thoughts in his mind knew how to stray so well when Bono was in front of him. No, it hadn’t been what he’d wanted to say at all, but it had been the only other truth he’d had left.

“Tell me,” Bono had insisted. “Almost every problem has a solution, but sometimes you need a second set of eyes looking from another angle to pick up on it.”

A shrug, a sigh, a repeated, “I don’t know what to do.” Another drink. “Does it ever feel like you’re just going through the motions, with you and Ali?”

“I can’t answer that the way you want me to.”

“So that’s a no?”

“I didn’t say that. I just can’t give you the definitive yes that you need to hear.”

Carson had gone into Letterman, the bottle inching slowly towards the point of being more empty than full—a familiar sight that always left Edge feeling a little proud. _Look at what we’ve accomplished! And we’re barely even drunk. Ask me to walk in a straight line, go on, ask_. “It’s not playful anymore,” he had muttered. “It was once. Now, it’s just . . . duty. You don’t know that?”

“I know shattered plates against the wall.” Bono’s smile had been wry, his hand reaching out to pat, to stay. “I think Ali and I run too hot together to ever fall into duty, Edge.”

“What do you miss? When she’s not around, I mean.”

Bono hadn’t thought long. “The intimacy of being known _,_ through and through,” he had said without needing to expand further. Another night he had told Edge, _she can read my heartbeat when it changes_ , painting love in that abstract way of his. On any other night, it had been written on his face as he looked her way and simply smiled. And in Washington he had screamed _sometimes, all I see is red!_ to a crowd of fifty thousand and meant it. Anger, love, passion—all good things that enveloped Bono and kept him breathing. Of _course_ he hadn’t known duty.

“I miss her weight against me,” Edge had admitted. “And the connection, you know? And sex. I _think_ I can remember what it feels like. It’s more of a distant memory at this point. Is it fun? I think I can remember fun.”

“Oh, it’s a whole variety of things. Fun is only the tip of the iceberg.”

“Right. Right. It’s all coming back to me now.” A shrug, a sigh, a laugh from Paul Shaffer. Laughing at who? At Edge, no doubt. Was it deserved? Again, no doubt. “Who knows? Maybe my marriage isn’t actually falling apart.”

“See? Somehow I managed to convince you of reason.”

“Maybe I’m just frustrated. Like . . . you know—”

“Why, Edge, are we talking in the carnal sense?” Bono’s laughter had rolled through the room in a way that Edge knew all too well. Not mocking, not pitying, just his own brand of empathy that could shine through even the most expensive drop of alcohol, forty percent pure and served on the rocks, or neat, or however it had to come—and who even cared how it came as long as it did. “I suppose that could be another way of looking at the situation. A better way, really. An easy fix.”

“Not when she’s in another country.” A look from Bono, nothing more. That look had said more than enough. “No.”

“Did I say anything?”

“You didn’t have to! Do I look like Adam to you?”

“Did I say you did?”

“You didn’t say anything!”

“That’s what I’m saying, Edge, _nothing_!” Bono had exclaimed, though he hadn’t laughed when Edge had started to. “I can’t . . . I honestly cannot imagine you scouring a bar in search of a quick fuck. You’re far too noble for that.”

“And what is Adam then, if not noble?”

“He’s a gentleman, of course. They’re a different breed entirely.”

“Are they?”

“For the sake of this argument, let’s say yes, alright?” Bono had sat up properly then, pointing at Edge like he’d finally figured it all out. And god, wouldn't that have been _something_. “You, Edge, just don’t have it in you to cheat like that. No, you would need that connection, that intimate connection. It’s always intimacy that we find ourselves longing for, isn’t it?”

There had been no denying it. There had been no denying a lot of things. “I don’t even know if I _could_ cheat,” he had said instead.

Bono’s smile had turned thin. “I doubt most people ever plan on doing it. They don’t know what they’re capable of until it happens. Life is life. What would it be without complications?”

“Have you done it?”

“No.”

“Do you think you ever could?”

“You’d be surprised at what I imagine myself doing sometimes.” A shrug, an odd grin, an accompanying mental image that Edge welcomed all too well. _What do you imagine?_ he had almost heard himself asking. _Tell me, so that we can compare those dangerous little thoughts of ours_. “My heart is telling me to say no, and to turn on you viciously for even thinking that I could do such a thing. But my mind knows logic and reason. Mostly. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not even a lot of nights, actually. Can I really sit here and be a hundred percent certain of how one aspect of my life will play out, from now until the moment I’m put into the ground? I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future. I don’t even know for sure what might happen in the next five minutes. Things change, Edge. Life changes. A thought occurs to me and I act on it. Or I don’t. No, that sounds too simple, too black and white, doesn’t it? How do _you_ want me to answer the question?”

“I don’t know,” Edge had replied. “After listening to all that, I can barely remember what it was I asked.”

Another drink, the television turned to static, the stars shining brightly through the window. “I’m not even thinking about sex,” he had said, certain he sounded like a man who thought of nothing else. “No, seriously. I just—I don’t even need another person touching me. I think I, I’m . . . it would just be good to have someone there with me when I . . . you know.”

“Watching?”

“Perhaps. Or even just sharing the moment, being right there with me.” His intense studying of the carpet had revealed flaws that didn’t belong in a hotel so five-star. A stain that had been worked at. Small missing patches that could easily be fixed, but hadn’t. All it would take was just a little more effort. “I don’t know, it’s hard to, you know. Explain.”

Bono had raised his glass, but his expression had been far from victorious. “Intimacy.”

“Yeah. I guess. Yeah.”

Silence. Thoughtful and companionable, the kind that Edge had always breathed in and savoured. He knew those little moments when Bono was right there with him yet drifting so well. 

 _How do you always know?_ Edge had wanted to ask. _How do you always get it right? The things that you say . . . how do you just_ know _?_

And it wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world to speak his mind. It might even have made Bono’s ego puff up that little bit extra. But sometimes, it was just hard to connect the mouth to the brain, especially after a few drinks. Sometimes, all that Edge could think to do was smile at him, and hope it would do the trick.

A smile back, a gaze that lingered. A hand on Edge’s arm when he had reached for the bottle. Bono’s eyes searching, searchingsearching _finding_ , his hand staying. It hadn’t been his touch that had given Edge pause. It had been the change in his smile. Barely noticeable, yet all that Edge had been able to see. Somewhere along the way, they had become experts at lying to themselves. About what? About so many things. There had been countless nights that he could remember, nights where pretending had become just as easy as breathing. But that look, that searching look . . .

 “Edge,” Bono had started quietly, shifting against the couch until their thighs were pressed and warm together. “D’you ever think back to church camp?”

A beat. “Sometimes. Which part?”

“The part you told me about. Remember? Remember telling me about it? All. Those. Years. Ago.” His fingers tiptoeing up Edge’s thigh, shifting at each pause before retreating. He’d not needed to specify for Edge to know exactly what memory he had been looking to dredge up, yet it hadn’t stopped him from saying, “You and that boy, what was his name again?”

“I don’t know,” Edge had lied. And why? Why had he?

“You don’t remember the name of the boy you kissed? You _dog_. Been kissing a lot of boys then, have we? Issit all one big blur?”

“I don’t—”

“What were you doing then, that day at camp? Hmm? What would you call it?”

A shrug, a sigh, a play for time that had gotten Edge nowhere fast. “I dunno . . . experimenting?”

“Mmm. Experimenting. Now there’s a word for it. Experimenting.” Bono’s smile had turned indescribable, his eyes raking down Edge’s face to his chest and then right back on up to focus. “Let’s drink to that, hmm?”

They had—Edge slowly, Bono his polar opposite. One stiff drink, and the startings of another, the world close to hazing around the edges. “Why?” Edge had asked only when he couldn’t stand the thought of not knowing a second longer. “Why did you . . . why?”

“I just think,” Bono had started loudly, “that it’s human nature to wanna experiment. Isn’t it. I mean, your little story, Edge, it’s just one of thousands and fucking _thousands_ like it, you know? We’ve _allll_ had a moment like it, and if we haven’t, then, well . . .” A shrug, a smile. “We’re about fuckin’ due for it.”

Edge had comfortably reached the point of being well past tipsy, yet it still had taken him only one second to catch on. One second, and then he’d been straight on to knowing. Even if he’d been face first on the carpet, pissed with a chance of alcohol poisoning in his future, still Edge would have known Bono’s number. And it should have been shock that he’d felt, or relief, or any emotion at all, yet all Edge had felt was blank. Blank, and teetering slightly off to the side.

 _Why?_ he had wanted to ask again. _Why now? Why not sooner? Why not later?_ “We are?” he had said instead. His mouth, his mind. Neither had known which path the other was trying to take.

“You remember hearing all those whispers at school. Those little secrets that some of the boys shared. You remember hearing about it, Edge? Those stories about the boys wanking together, like it was no big deal. And it wasn’t a big deal. It’s not sex. It’s not anything bad or wrong. It’s just—”

“Experimenting.”

A nod, a smile. “Just ex—yeah. Way I see it, it’s a form of intimacy, but no strings attached. And, look . . . look, I’m just, I’m only making a suggestion here. That’s it, Edge. I just think, the way I see it, is—is if you’re, you know, and I’m over here, missin’ my missus, then why don’t we figure it all out together, huh? It wouldn’t be weird. It couldn’t be. Just our little secret, alright? Jus’ . . . blowing off a little steam, not breaking any rules by doing that. Nobody has to know.”

Four words, three syllables at the top end and one and one and one to finish out, and the silence that followed, that stretched between them as Edge relived the conversation and tried to figure out exactly _how_ they had gotten to where they were. He couldn’t shake it. It stuck with him, like a play might long after he’d left the theatre, the first act leading into the second act, the now. That’s where they were. At the top end of the second act. He’d read _Waiting for Godot_ , he knew that Act Two had more to it than silence. Something had to happen. Not that it had, really, in _Waiting for Godot_ , but still. There was only so long that they could wait before a change came.

That uncertain look in Bono’s eye, the fading smile. The way his head was listing to the side a little. _Ask us both to walk in a straight line, go on, ask! I bet you we fuck it up immediately!_ Surely this was a topic best suited for a day when they could think it through and talk it over with some fuckin’ clarity. What was clarity? Edge couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember a lot of things. All that he had was that look on Bono’s face, and the suggestion that had been made, rolling through his mind until he felt a little seasick from the motion. It wasn’t anything bad or wrong. Experimenting. No strings attached. Wasn’t this exactly what Edge had wanted? That look, that searching look. _The things that you say . . ._

“Yeah.” It slipped out, sounding to Edge like his own voice was coming from another room. “Yeah, okay.” Another slip, but he didn’t regret it. Where was the regret? Where was all that fear of a mistake being made? Bono stared at him, wide-eyed and blue-eyed and red-eyed, his smile turning a bit twisted. Edge stared right on back. He wasn’t blank anymore, but he was still teetering. It was a fucking terrible idea. It was a fucking great idea. What the fuck were they even _doing_? “Now?” Edge managed to ask.

“Why not? I’m feelin’ loose, aren’t you feelin’ loose? Why not now?” Bono shrugged. “But . . . if you don’t want to, then—”

“Is this—I mean, you’ve thought about it? Before?”

“Who knows, Edge? Who could know for sure?”

It was a question that Edge wasn’t equipped to quickly deal with. He thought about it for a moment too long before coming to a sound conclusion. “You could.” They both could. And maybe they had. Who could know for sure?

Bono just smiled before turning in his seat, his knee pressing hard against Edge’s thigh, his hand coming down again to touch, to tiptoe before fading away. “It’s normal to be curious, I think. Are you, Edge? Curious?”

Edge was. Of course he was. How could he not be, with Bono so close and so warm, his gaze searching for a _go_? Edge had kissed a boy at church camp. He’d pretended to look away once upon a time when Bono got changed, until it had all become so goddamn ridiculous. And that had been in the before time, when Bono had been soft in some ways and missing all those angles. The angles and the not angles that were found in places that Edge was determined to look straight on past. Curious was a word for it. Bono’s thigh was right there—a not angle. It was right fucking there, asking for a hand to touch it. “Uh . . . yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The click of Bono’s throat, the way his lower lip disappeared between his teeth. His eyes dragging down Edge’s body, right on down until there was no point in pretending as though he was looking anywhere else but where he was. For that brief, blinding moment Edge was sure that Bono was going to reach out a hand and touch him, and how would he react? It was hard to know. But Edge could make a guess. And his guess featured him just sitting there, watching as his belt was undone, as his fly was drawn down, as his cock was pulled out into the open air—the perfect place for that hand of Bono’s to start dragging back and forth until Edge had no choice but to finally react. And how would he react? It was hard to know. But Edge could make another guess. And his guess would have him breaking a lot more rules than Bono _ever_ could.

And then that brief, blinding moment was over, and Bono hadn’t reached out a hand to touch. It was just the two of them looking at each other, waiting for whatever was to come. That first move. Who was it going to be? Bono. Shifting to pick up his glass and finish his drink. Amber liquid gone in one hard gulp. The glass clinking against the table as he set it back down. His smile, the glint in his eye, that expectant expression that Edge just couldn’t look past. The room close to spinning. Bono’s voice. “Edge . . .”

It was enough to make Edge move. He didn’t glance away. He wasn’t even sure if he could, or should, or knew how to. He reached for his belt and saw the change come across Bono’s face. He undid his belt, and drew down his fly, and pulled his cock out into the open air—the perfect place for his own hand to start dragging back and forth as Bono watched. A look that twisted deep inside of Edge, that made him think a hundred thoughts at once, all clamouring together to be heard over one another, buzzing until the pressure in his head made him sure that an explosion was about to happen.

It didn’t. His head didn’t explode. His hand didn’t stop. And Bono didn’t glance away, even as he undid his own belt, and drew down his own fly, and pulled his own cock out into the open air. He was hard. He was already right there with Edge. His hand, his breath, that ragged sound cutting through the still of the night. His face, his eyes as he watched Edge watching him. Electric blue.

The room started to spin, spinning around them, the alcohol turning bitter at the back of his throat. And that pressure was still there, in his head, his ears, his chest, and deep inside of him, a pressure that he knew all too well, but not like this.

Not like this.

Curious? Yes. He’d been curious, he’d been curious to see it all, to know how Bono’s face would change, to see his eyes, his body, his mouth, his moaning mouth, he was moaning, moaning as the room spun around them, gasping as Edge joined him in scaring away the silence, _ask us to walk in a straight line, no, ask us to do it_ all _together_ , the curve of his thigh, the shine of his cock, the tilting room, his breath as he moaned and gasped and one and one and one to finish out, he was crying out, no, he was gone and the room with it, white light behind Edge’s eyelids and lightning inside of him, a wicked burn that lingered long after colour returned to his world.

The room was still spinning. And Bono was still close to gasping, wide-eyed and blue-eyed and red-eyed as they looked at each other. Edge didn’t glance away. He wasn’t even sure if he could, or should, or knew how to. They stared at each other until the laughter bubbled out from his chest, slow at first and then heaving, coming out like an ache, coming out like it was all he knew how to do. He didn’t know why he was laughing. He didn’t know if he could stop. But it was a relief when Bono joined in, because Edge wasn’t sure what might have happened had he been the only one to laugh after _that_ , but he could make a guess. And his guess featured only trouble on their horizon. Thank god it was only a guess. Thank fuckin’ Lord Jesus that Bono was right there with him.

“Was it weird?” Bono eventually asked. “Edge, no, _listen_ , was it?”

“No.” Edge shook his head. Weird? It wasn’t the word that he would go for. He knew exactly what he might call it, and weird definitely wasn’t it. “No, it was . . . it—”

“No big deal, right? We were just . . .” A sigh, a shrug, a glance that refused to leave Edge’s face. The room had stopped spinning, granting him a surprising clarity with which to take in the way Bono’s expression changed, and his smile, that smile of his that always spelled trouble. “Our little secret, Edge,” he said without breaking gaze. “Nobody has to know.”

 

* * *

 

Two shows down, three days gone, a new hotel room to discover and uncover until the flaws were found beneath that slick and shiny exterior. Edge had become an expert on the subject of flaws. Hide them as well as you could, as well as you must to make it through the day unscathed, but eventually they would still be uncovered. By who? By people who were on the hunt, searching for a reason to keep their head among the stars.

There was no chill to be found in Los Angeles, only sunlight and dreamers, those who still had hope that they could make it through, those who _had_ made it through, and those who could fake it. At any given moment Edge could go from loving the city to hating it, though when he tried to find a reason why on both sides he was hit only with excuses. They were the lucky ones who had made it through, the dreamers who could drive past billboards promoting their own cause. Still, he could relate to those who had mastered the art of faking it. Sometimes, he was sure that this was where he belonged.

Two shows down, three days gone, and the memory of that night trip-tripping through his waking thoughts. The looks that had passed between them in those quiet moments since. Backstage before the show, and after, the two of them in an elevator but not alone. Across the table in a crowded bar, the music thumping through his mind until it was drowned out by his own thoughts. Notions of what could be and what had been, spliced with what shouldn’t be, the _no_ that was struggling to be heard over all that noise. The look from across the table, the things that weren’t being said. All Edge had seen for three days was electric blue. That look said more than enough. What choice did he have but to breathe it in, again and again, until it consumed him? How long had that clock been ticking? And how long had it taken for them to notice? What were they to do with it?

What else _could_ they do?

The beat was still marching on, matching his footsteps as he headed down the hallway, two doors down, shiny gold on white wood, a knock that went unanswered, a second one that made its mark.

A smile, a question not being asked. It was all there in Bono’s eyes as he leaned against the doorframe, watching Edge like he knew, like he wasn’t sure, like he had some excuses of his own. “It’s a nice day for it,” he said, “if you’re looking for a night on the town.”

“I don’t want to go out tonight.”

Bono pursed his lips, looking Edge up and down before stepping aside. “You’re telling me I scrubbed myself clean for nothing?” His hair was still damp, the bathrobe pulled tightly around him. _It hadn’t been for nothing_ , Edge wanted to say. The door closed behind them. _Do you know how hard it is to keep from breathing you in all the time?_ Shampoo, soap, cologne. And beneath it all, just Bono. He could change the brands, and he did, he constantly did, but it made not a lick of difference to Edge. He knew it all. He knew far too much. “All that work, Edge. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t leave you here alone, and it better be a damn good reason or I’m putting on my boots and making myself known to Adam and Larry.”

Edge had a reason. It was a damn good one too, at least he was almost sure. But there was knowing, and there was telling. How did people just voice what they wanted all the time without fearing the response? “I’ll help you drink whatever you have in this room,” he said instead.

It was enough of a reason, if Bono’s smile was to be believed. “That’s assuming that I have anything in this room to drink.”

“Of course you do. You always do.”

“What are you suggesting? That I have some sort of dependence? How dare you?”

“What are we drinking?”

“You wound me, Edge. You truly do,” Bono muttered as he walked away, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was being followed. It wasn’t necessary. What choice did Edge have but to follow? “Vodka or whiskey?”

“Whiskey.”

A smile, a wink. “Is that all we drink on the West Coast?” Bono asked, and it could only be knowing found in that expression of his. Where was the uncertainty? Where were the excuses? Only knowing, only expectation. Two shows down, three days gone, the tension thrumming throughout. Edge knew the beat like it was coming from within his own chest.

“We’ll see.”

Amber liquid poured into two tumblers, the clinking of glass on glass. “Cheers,” Edge said but didn’t take a sip. He watched Bono until the mouthful had been swallowed, until their gazes met and stayed. There was no physical reaction when Edge reached out a hand, no change in posture or expression, nor a voice of reason to be heard. No _stop_ , no _we can’t_ , not even _a what are you doing?_ It was only when Edge grasped the tie of Bono’s bathrobe and pulled that any reaction came at all. A look, just a look. Heat. There was no hiding it when Edge knew exactly where to search.

He remembered how wide and red Bono’s eyes had been three nights before, but now there was only that familiar blue and an unfamiliar darkness that was creeping in fast. His bathrobe fell open. Pale skin, dark hair. Heat. That look in his eye, his stillness. There was no attempt made to cover his naked self. No voice of reason to be found. Where was the regret? Edge had forgotten what it felt like. He’d left it behind in Oakland for the next sad sap to discover. There was only so long one could cling to such a thing, after all.

A look, a drink. Edge grimaced against that whiskey burn.

“Go sit on the couch,” Bono said, his tone daring Edge to try and negotiate. _We do this by my terms, or not at all_ , Edge might have said in another life, a life where he had come to Bono’s hotel room with an actual plan in place. He had nothing. It had been need that forced his step, not logic.

He took his drink with him into the next room over, setting the glass down before settling on the couch. For the briefest of moments, he was left alone. Past experiences had made Edge well aware of how quickly doubt could start trickling in, how easily he could go from _it’s fine_ to _let’s start at the beginning so I can properly pinpoint every single error I made along the way_.  For the briefest of moments, he knew fear. And then company arrived, wearing an open bathrobe and a smile that could have given Mona Lisa’s a run for its money.

A look, a drink, a glass forgotten on the side table. There were sketches of expectation in Edge’s mind, seating arrangements and fanciful attempts at hiding outright stares. He imagined them side by side, always side by side, warm and close but not close enough to burn. But his creative mind was no match for Bono’s showmanship. There were ways in which to reach an audience when nothing else seemed to work, ways that Bono constantly strived to understand. There were steps to take on the way to the top, a path that only those special few could comprehend, that had missed Edge by mere millimetres whilst flying over his head. There was expectation, and there was reality. There was what Edge thought he wanted, and what he’d not realized he needed.

A sigh, a shaky smile, the weight in his lap. The shock of it all. And it wasn’t just him that was taken aback, no matter how hard Bono tried to mask it. His eyes, somehow they always managed to hold an array of emotions at any given time. Neither of them had seen him climbing into Edge’s lap until it had happened, Edge was almost sure of it.

 _How do you always know?_ he wanted to ask, but couldn’t find his voice. _How do you always get it right? The things that you do . . . how do you just_ know _?_

How could he even think to say a goddamn thing, after being blindsided? What was there to say? They both knew that a choice had been made, one that just couldn’t be taken back or forgotten. And would they even want to? Clarity was yet to leave the room. Edge could see their situation so clearly, and absorb it all, and know, just know—he didn’t want to change one fucking thing.

“Is—is this right?” Bono asked. “Is this what you miss?” His smile hadn’t changed. Was it possible that at least some of that regret had managed to hitchhike from city to city? “Or am I too heavy?”

No, it couldn’t have been regret. That look in his eye, the warmth of his body—they revealed far more than a smile ever could. “You’re not too heavy.”

It wasn’t regret. It was weight that Edge didn’t recognize yet relished all the same, and the way that Bono’s smile transformed in the immediate aftermath of his reassurance. Only Bono knew which step to take next on that path of theirs. Whether Edge was to be dragged down that path or guided by a gentle hand remained to be seen, but either way it was a relief to know that he would be right there with Bono, following that same beat as it marched on and on and on.

The warmth of it all, the weight against him. “Can you manage with me here?” Bono briefly glanced down. “I could—”

“Don’t,” Edge cut in. “Don’t move.”

A pause. “Okay.” It was almost that same look from Oakland, wide-eyed and blue-eyed but missing all that red that had become such a huge part of what made Bono tick. It was still pumping through his body, however. It was still keeping him warm, filling him with need, making him stay right where he was meant to be. He didn’t look away. He didn’t break gaze. He didn’t glance down to watch Edge’s hand working between them, to see the undoing of a belt nor the drawing down of a fly. And his gaze didn’t waver when Edge hissed out a breath as he touched himself for that first time, reacting as though it really was the first time, though any thought of regret or uncertainty seemed to disappear in that very moment. A look, just a look. Heat.

 _What happened to Ol’ Blue Eyes_? Edge might have asked in another life where he could get away with saying such ridiculous things. _What happened to that bright blue-eyed boy?_ He hadn’t known that Bono’s eyes could ever look like that. He hadn’t known a fucking thing _. When did you get all those angles? When did we change? When did_ this _change?_

_How do you always know?_

His mind, his mind. The thoughts whirring through, belonging to another night, to a time when he wasn’t desperate to reach out and Bono wasn’t daring him to—and it had never been words that they’d needed to know, just a look, just that one look between them. They didn’t break gaze. The thoughts that were rushing through Edge’s mind . . .

They didn’t break gaze. And it wasn’t a hiss of breath that Bono let out when he finally touched himself, it was barely a sound at all. A flash of teeth, the way he shifted in Edge’s lap, a centimetre, an inch, two inches closer, almost close enough for their knuckles to brush as they stroked. No, a sound wasn’t needed from Bono at all. Not yet. Not when Edge had so much to already work with. It had been so easy to drag his thoughts straight down into the gutter _. Do you know what I want to do to you?_ he would ask Bono in that other life of theirs. _Everything. Everything, everything, everything . . ._

His weight, the quiet huffs of his breath, his free hand reaching out for his drink. They didn’t break gaze, and Bono didn’t break stride. One hand to stroke himself, the other to bring the glass to his lips at first, and then to Edge’s, the whiskey warming the last of his insides. The sound of glass against glass as the drink was set back down, the sound of Bono as his moan finally broke on through to the other side. Skin against skin, breath after breath, fingers gripping Edge’s shoulder for leverage.

Clarity had rarely been so kind to him in the past. What had been a whirlwind the first time now felt like a film being played in slow motion. He’d been a fucking idiot not to focus on all the ways in which pleasure could change Bono’s face. Yes, Edge could remember that mouth, that moaning mouth, but there was remembering and then there was knowing, and he hadn’t known, really, until now. How many times had he seen Bono bite his lip before? It was changed for good. Edge hadn’t understood until now. Any of it. He’d been a fucking idiot to think that he had known this Bono.

His mouth, his whiskey breath, his hips rolling in Edge’s lap, his gasp, him, _him_. A hand at his arse, dragging him closer, their knuckles brushing, their foreheads touching, a mess of hair falling their faces, still in slow motion. That look, electric blue. A hand against Edge’s cheek, fingernails dragging through the hair at his temple, Bono’s gaze sliding down, his moan, his weight, him, just him, and the cry that cut through the room, the wet heat that found them both, his breath shuddering on the exhale. “ _Edge_.” A gasp that sounded like a name, that was almost enough to drag Edge down as well, that brought all those thoughts to his mind before forcing them back into darkness _, everything, everything, nothing, you, just you . . ._

His name whispered in his ear, a deliberate shift in his lap, the end bursting through him in slow motion at first, before becoming a blinding rush that was all too much, and then not nearly enough. Clarity came back with him in pieces, the warmth rushing through his body overtaken by the warmth against him—Bono, and the come on his stomach that, Edge knew, didn’t belong to only him. He hadn’t known that Bono’s eyes could look like that. How many times had he felt Bono’s palm against his cheek in the past? It was changed for good. And he couldn’t find it in himself to feel sorry for that, for any of it. Regret had been left behind in a hotel room in Oakland. It wouldn’t find him. He could do whatever he felt like. He could do everything.

The look, the smile, the hand slowly sliding away. The pause that stopped them both after Edge turned his head and pressed his lips against Bono’s palm. “Edge . . .”

It wasn’t a _no_ , nor a _we can’t_ , it wasn’t even _a what are you doing?_ It was only his name, and rarely had that ever sounded like a negative thing coming from Bono’s mouth. His fingertips against Edge’s lips, the quick retreat of his hand. Confliction was a game they had toyed with in the past, sometimes with an accompanying smile being passed between them, other times an unspoken warning.

His weight, his warmth, gone long before Edge was prepared to relinquish his hold. He watched Bono walk away, and followed when the need became too great.

Silence. It wasn’t the kind that they knew. He leaned against the doorframe, unsure of how to proceed as he watched Bono at the sink. Each thought that sprung to mind seemed more ridiculous than the one it followed, some full of notions of grand gestures and words best left unsaid, others far more practical yet even less appealing. Take it back? Go back to pretending? How could they? His thoughts, his mind, the silence between them. Ridiculous. But something had to be said. And the one logical thing that did come to mind wasn’t a _no_ , nor was it a _yes_ , it was simply as real as he could make it. “Do you want me to go?”

 _Say no_ , he wanted to add. _Say more than just one word. Say yes, if you have to. Just don’t say stop._

“What?” Bono let out a laugh as he dried his hands on the towel. His bathrobe was pulled tight, his smile back to where it had been right before he’d climbed into Edge’s lap. “Don’t be ridiculous. Come and have a drink.”

Whiskey on the rocks, the television turned up high. It was one way to drown out the silence. They sat together, side by side, Bono watching the liquid swirl in his tumbler, Edge watching him. His hair was drying in gentle waves. The line of his jaw could cut through glass like a diamond. _The things that I would do to you_ , Edge wanted to say to him. _All those things, everything, everything, everything._

A sigh, a hesitant smile. “You asked me the other night, if I’d thought about it before,” Bono said quietly.

“I did.”

“Were you actually looking for an answer, or did you already know?”

“I knew. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“Do you still need to hear it?” A hand through his hair, a beat that lasted half a breath. “I’ve thought about it, Edge. Of course I have. Have you?”

“Sometimes it’s all I can do.”

Bono nodded, forehead crinkling as he rubbed his finger back and forth across his mouth. Edge had learned to recognize that conflicted expression long before he ever knew why it had first started to appear.

“Maybe I should go,” he said, an idea that he could almost work with. It wasn’t _stop_ , it wasn’t final. What followed _go_ was the inevitability of returning. 

“Maybe you should.”

“Okay.”

“No.” A shake of the head, an array of emotions bursting in that one look. “Don’t. I don’t want you to leave.”

“Bono—”

“Stay, alright? Let’s just . . . we’ll have that drink, yeah?”

“We already are.”

Bono’s laugh came out sounding forty-eight percent manufactured, but it didn’t matter. Edge was determined to focus on the remaining fifty-two percent that was real. It wasn’t a landslide, but it was still a win. “We are, aren’t we?” A shrug, a smile that faded away all too quickly. “I don’t know what to do,” Bono said, but all Edge heard was _it was never meant to become this complicated_.

His warmth, a weight against Edge’s chest that he knew far too well. A hug without an end in sight. “I don’t know what to do,” Bono said again, a murmur against Edge’s shoulder. “What the hell did we just do?”

 

* * *

 

One glance at Bono’s body language was enough to tell most of the story, for those who didn’t know where else to look. The rest was in his eyes, his blinding eyes, as he paced backstage in the immediate aftermath. Red hot, refusing to fade. Five steps here, seven there, left shoulder rolling, breathing little controlled breaths that the three of them recognized from past experiences. Adam and Larry, they knew better. Retreat. Gather up their things and retreat elsewhere. They had their own wounds to lick, after all.

Where had been the connection? Where had been the back and forth that was needed? A wall had been erected between the stage and crowd, an invisible barrier that they just hadn’t managed to climb. Gone was the sunset, left were the dreamers. Hadn’t they made it through once upon a time? Hadn’t Los Angeles been kind to them in the past? Hadn’t it been kind to them only _yesterday_? It had taken just one night for a lifetime to pass, for it all to come crashing down. One night and then another, two together, polar opposites, joy overcome by rage.

Edge wasn’t as smart as Adam and Larry. He didn’t know when to step away. He only knew how to step forward, close enough to catch Bono’s attention. His eyes, a different kind of electric. No one needed that connection more than him. No one worked as hard as he did to find it. And no one took it quite as personally when it all fell apart. It was a desperate need that overcame Bono sometimes, that made him practically beg the crowd to love him, the crowd or his people, his friends, his lover.

And then there was Edge. Which category did he fall under?

It was hard to know.

“Bono—”

“Is this it?” A hand in his hair, a bitter smile, that blazing blue turning into a beast of a different kind. “Is this all we are? I can’t _know_ them like this.”

“I know, I get it. But in Austin—”

“Austin? Who could give a fuck about Austin right now?”

“I’m just—it’ll be easier, alright? Smaller crowd, back to an arena. It’ll be easier.”

Where was the anger now? Edge knew that look of Bono's. It was far too close to despair for his liking. “It’s only a false sense of security though, isn’t it?” Bono let out. “How will that help us when we reach Miami? Or Tampa? How did it help us _tonight_ , Edge?”

There was only silence to be found in the drive back to the hotel, a silence that they had known in the past. Los Angeles was all glitz and glamour, but through the window Edge could see clearly beneath that shiny exterior. He knew where to look. He knew flaws. There would be no glittering lights to be seen when they flew out. Sometimes, daylight exposed the darkness far better than night ever could.

“I’m staying in tonight,” Bono said only after the elevator doors had closed them in. “I’ve had enough of LA.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest otherwise.”

A roll of his shoulder, a pained smile. “You’ve had enough too?”

Edge shrugged. “It wasn’t all bad.” Their eyes met. “Some parts were unforgettable.” The doors slid open, the beat finding their footsteps and slowly matching them as they headed down the hallway, shiny gold on white wood, something close to suggestion in Bono’s gaze when they looked at each other. It wasn’t voiced. His forced smile, his fingers around the door handle, only _goodnight_ being uttered before he slipped away.

Two doors down and then back again, twenty seconds all that was needed for Edge to revaluate his entire existence. He didn’t hesitate before knocking, and the door opened far too quickly for Bono to have stepped away from it. A look, just a look.

“Do you want a drink?” Bono asked only after the door had closed them in.

“Yes.”

Whiskey poured without being asked for a preference, a mouthful that burned through Edge like he’d been doused and set alight. He couldn’t look past the shadows that still remained on Bono’s face, the lines that only seemed to appear on certain nights, the downturn of his mouth. But his eyes, his _eyes_.

It had taken Edge only a smattering of days to develop a dependency on that electric blue. It was what had forced him back down that hallway, a look that had kept him company during those long nights in between. Those shadows might have been impossible to look past, but that didn’t mean Edge had to put all his energy into making it right. That look, though, that burning look . . .

“I was just about to take a shower,” Bono said.

“Okay.”

And there was that beat again, coming between them, matching the one in Edge’s chest and each breath that Bono was taking. Poets had written about silence in so many ways, but had they written about _this_? “Do you want to watch?” An offer that had clearly slipped out, a fumbled clarification that died in the air. “I-I didn’t . . .”

“Yeah.” What else could Edge say but yes? There had been no surprise to be found when the offer had been made, not on his part anyway. And maybe there should have been, and surely there _would_ have been in another life, the life that only a handful of days beforehand they had stepped away from, but tonight all he had left in him was a _yes_.

Watch? Of course he wanted to watch, he wanted to see it all, to know every single side of a man that he already knew through and through better than himself. How much more would it take before Edge started writing his own poetry? Would the sight of water flowing against skin that was pale yet flushed where it counted the most be enough, or did he need a touch, a kiss? Did he need more? He already knew how he would start, if ever he were to try and put pen to paper. A look, just a look. Heat. And it would be written in blue ink that streaked the page with each passing of his hand, creating art without even trying.

White tiles, fluorescent lighting. A spotlight to emphasize those shadows on Bono’s face, the angles. Blue veins visible beneath the delicate skin of his wrist, his pulse racing against Edge’s touch. Just one touch. There was no chair to sit on, and the positioning of the toilet in relation to the shower was all wrong, so Edge took two steps back from Bono and stayed. _Give him space, give him everything, just give him exactly what he needs_. What did he need? Edge could only make a guess. He could only hope. And he could only smile when Bono took his time to strip, his movements casual, his expression anything but. He knew what he was doing. He knew exactly, and there was no regret to be found, only a hint of hesitation that was forgotten as soon as it was gone.

A smile, a sigh, a pile of clothes in the corner. The sound of water hitting the tiles, a _hot_ tap turned up on high, _cold_ barely getting a look in. Steam was sure to follow, to fill the room and mar Edge’s vision until he just had to come closer. An excuse that he just couldn’t wait for. He came closer, three steps, four, only to be ignored.

There was Bono, rolling his left shoulder again and again beneath the beat of the water, searching for some relief. His head tilted back, wet hair like black ink against pale skin. His eyes were closed yet Edge could still sense all that electricity. _What happened to that wide-eyed boy?_ he would ask if it ever came down to it. _When did this man take his place?_ It had happened so gradually that there was no pinpointing an exact time when the change had taken place. _When did you become muscle and curves? When did you first know I was looking? When did_ I _know?_

There was Bono, showering like he was alone. But the truth was to be found in the sigh that was almost missed beneath the sound of the water, one tiny sigh and the flex of his left hand. Loose fingers turning into a fist and then back to loose. His throat bobbing against a hard swallow. His cock beginning to harden. What choice did Edge have?

His clothes joined Bono’s in the corner. A faraway smile, a look. Electric blue. The water was almost too hot, but Edge didn’t dare complain. It wasn’t for him, it wasn’t why he had stepped through the steam.

His mind, his mind. The thoughts buzzing through, ideas and notions of the next step to take, the pressure in his head building like a storm. But he didn’t know the steps, the initial path to take to reach those dizzying highs. He was ignorant where Bono was brilliant. _Give him space, give him whatever is needed until he can figure it out for both of us._

The barely-there space between them, the water turning the world into a blur. One step back was all Edge needed to find some clarity, the water still hitting his chest, his body, but not his face. One step forward was the only move that Bono thought to take, his hand coming up to fling the water from his face, again and again until Edge pressed back against the glass and lost the water completely. Another step forward for Bono, the water hitting his hair, his back, leaving the front of him wide open and free of it all. A roll of his shoulder, an unfamiliar smile. Even without the water Edge still knew enough heat to warm him for days.

“Edge,” Bono said, his voice tiptoeing up both of Edge’s thighs to linger between them. “Can you help me?”

“With what?” Edge asked. _Everything_ was the answer he was hoping for _. Help me with my mouth, my chest, my cock. It’s all yours, Edge, all of it, everything, everything, everything._

“My hair.” A shrug, a smile. His hair could still fall under the category of _everything_. If Edge’s mind was to be believed, it would only take one beat to drag his hand away from Bono’s hair and straight on down, to discover it all, everything that was on offer. And Edge couldn’t help but wonder what it would take to bring forth the _no_. Would it ever come? Or would Bono let him do anything and everything if only so he could see Edge smile? It seemed possible. A theory masquerading as fact. It was always a smile that Bono was after, always a form of approval. Edge could do anything, and even realizing that was power.

“Your hair.”

“It needs washing.” Another shrug, a sigh that belonged on stage. “My shoulder is killing me, Edge. Please.”

One hand was all he needed to wash his hair. They both knew, but who was Edge to be the voice of reason? He reached for the shampoo bottle without a second thought. “Turn around.”

The heat of the water had bloomed the skin of Bono’s back pink. His hair felt like wet silk between Edge’s fingers. The curve of his arse was far too tempting. A shudder, a sigh. The water raining down on them, raining down within the inch of space left between. Hot skin against his cock, a deliberate shift of Bono’s hips, a single slide before Edge furthered the distance once more. The scent of manufactured citrus became all he knew, white noise between his ears for one brief moment. And then it all came rushing back, the heat, the water, wet silk and Bono’s harsh breathing.

“Turn around,” Edge said again, and Bono did. A look, just a look. That unfamiliar smile was long gone. In its place were parted lips that refused to close, that seemed to shudder alongside the rest of him when Edge closed the distance between them. There was the electricity, there was the feeling that he craved, that he’d only been lucky enough to fantasize about until now. A roll of Bono’s hips, a gasp cut short, their cocks dragging together.

It seemed ludicrous to even consider looking back. Where was her face in Edge’s mind? All he could see was what was right in front of him. Bono’s bottom lip disappearing between his teeth, his gaze darting back and forth, searchingsearching _finding,_ but he didn’t lean in like Edge thought he might. The _go_ was right there to be found, and they had both stumbled upon it, yet Bono simply kept on watching, his hips still now, letting out one small sound when Edge moved for the both of them. “ _Ah_.” The feel of their cocks together, the look in Bono’s eye turning wild, the white foam of the shampoo in his hair. The lead had been handed to Edge without him even realizing. “ _Ah_.”

Edge took a step back. He had to. Where was the clarity to be found if not in the distance between them? It was close to slipping away completely. One step back was all that he could manage, yet that look in Bono’s eyes refused to fade. The hardness of his body was missed instantly, but not the warmth. It was still there in the air, the water that had been close to scalding when Edge had first stepped in, but had now lost a little of that heat. How long would it take for it to turn stone cold? Could it ever be reduced to such a sad state? It didn’t seem worth hanging around to find out, not when Edge had other ideas. His mind, his dirty mind. The images that were streaking through had never quite been so obscene when they focused on anyone else. Where was that clarity headed? He had to cling to it, if only for a little while longer.

Two more steps back were all it took for him to lose the water completely. And one single beat was all that passed before Bono followed, until the distance between them became almost dangerous once more. His jaw felt like sandpaper against Edge’s palm, his hand coming up to join the hold. “Tilt your head back,” Edge said. It was a shame to lose the connection, the gaze, but what choice did they have?

Wet silk against his fingers, the shampoo rinsing away. Bono’s parted lips, the line of his jaw, the curve of a smile that was quickly becoming familiar. It had been coming for years. How the hell had it taken them so long to understand weakness and embrace it?

Edge shut off the water. In the silence that followed they just looked at each other, Bono’s chest heaving with each breath, Edge internalizing that very same feeling. They had seen westerns, they knew what a standoff looked like. Who would make the first move? Bono. His hair dripping down his back, wet footprints on white tiles. Leaving the shower behind to towel at his hair but not his body, his chest hair shining, tracks of water coasting down pink skin that refused to lose the heat of the shower. Edge followed suit, a towel against his hair but not his body, until they had both stopped dripping from high above.

Two damp towels forgotten in the bathtub, Bono’s pulse racing at his wrist. He allowed himself to be pulled until they were chest to back in front of the mirror, hair askew in ways that deserved a mocking from both parties, but no smile was to be found. A look, just a look reflecting back at both of them, the breath shuddering out of Bono when Edge pressed in closer to drag his hips, once, two times, more. He was feeling bold, so bold. What could he do? Anything and everything. _No_ was not a word that would come between them. His palm flat against Bono’s chest, damp hair coarser than wet silk. His palm sliding down past Bono’s navel, further, the mirror hanging too high to show just how easily his fingers could curl against Bono’s cock before grasping and holding.

And there was that sound again, a sound that was destined to become a part of Edge’s nightly fantasies. More than a sigh, less than a gasp. “ _Ah_.” That look in the mirror, those heavy eyes. The hand reaching back to clutch Edge’s hip and drag him closer. It felt right. Bono in his palm. The heat of his body. The _feel_ of him. The way they moved together, as though they were lost in the melody, synching like they did on stage, in the studio, in life all over. It should have been obvious that this was the next step for them to take. How much time had they wasted?

“Do you know what I want to do to you?”

A lick of his lips, his head falling back against Edge’s shoulder. “Tell me.”

“Everything,” Edge said, a murmur in his ear. “Everything.”

It took only one beat for Bono to turn in his arms, another for Edge to push him back, one step, four, back and back until they were pressed up against the sink, and it became a near-impossible task to keep even an inch of distance between them. Edge wanted the warmth. He needed to know it against his skin, his lips, his body, but settled for a familiar touch. Bono’s fingers at his shoulder, digging in. His own palm drawn to linger against Bono’s jaw, his thumb circling in a way that was far gentler than the rest of him, his hold serving as a reminder not to look away. It wasn’t needed, he knew. They wouldn’t break gaze.

Skin against skin, the warm huff of Bono’s breath against his chin. And there was that look on his face, that specific change that appeared when he touched himself, that made Edge wonder until the thoughts in his mind marched too far past obscene and started to ache. Was that how Bono would look while being fucked? What expression would appear to stay while he was riding Edge at seven in the morning when sleep was an afterthought? What would he look like when he _truly_ fell apart?

His mind, his mind. The pressure that was threatening to burst, pounding between Edge's ears, turning into a hiss as the tension skittered up and down his spine to settle deep within him, low where he needed it the most. He was moaning, he knew, moaning in a way that he couldn’t regret nor stop. And he wanted to look down, he wanted to see what it looked like for them to work together, to know themselves while the other watched, but he couldn’t. Not even for that one desperate moment of weakness. If he looked away then he would have to look again and again and lose that heat.

A look, just a look. It was what kept Edge’s gaze focused, even as he started to slip. He was slipping, no, he was moaning, and he knew they wouldn’t last long, but he wanted at least a few moments of grace before tumbling. A few moments, and then a few moments more, a day, a year, he wanted a fucking lifetime of this, of the sounds that Bono was making, the look of him, the heat of his body, and they both knew what it felt like when their foreheads met, they knew so well, but it still managed to set a fire inside of Edge every single time. A few moments, just a few moments more, _ah_ , the sound of skin against skin, the feel of Bono’s fingers digging in hard, and his gasp, his gasping mouth as he tumbled over, coming against his fingers, against them both, and his face, his _face_ —

Edge lost himself completely. A blinding few seconds was all he knew, as he tumbled, as the pressure turned to pain and then relief, shooting through him like a relentless flame, and when he came back he was kissing Bono like he’d been deprived of it for years, a hand in his hair, another at his back, their chests pressed together so tightly that Edge could feel his heartbeat pounding away. A lifetime was all that he wanted. It wasn’t too much to ask. It _wasn’t._

“Don’t go,” Bono said only when it had all faded away and the silence returned between them. It was the last thing that Edge had expected him to say.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

A shake of his head, a searching gaze. Edge was getting to know that look of Bono’s far too well. It wasn’t joy, nor was it despair, but something in between—a beast of a different kind. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.” A smile, just a bitter smile. “I can’t stand the silence, Edge. I don’t want it. I-I don’t want to be alone.”

“Bono,” Edge said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A borrowed shirt too big for his shoulders, underwear still good for a night. The sheets clung to his bare thighs as he lay there on his side, watching Bono as he stared at the ceiling, as he stared right on _through_ the ceiling and up to the stars, the vacant look in his eye begging for a distraction. But what? Everything that came to mind just didn’t seem right, but it was only when the silence between them became too much to bear that Edge thought to reach out his hand.

“Hey.” The smile he received was faint, but Bono’s grip was strong. “You alright?” A nod, just a slow nod. Edge knew what a lie looked like. He’d seen it far too many times recently. “Bono—”

“Don’t.” Bono shook his head, his expression changing fast. “Don’t ask again.” One beat was all it took for him to lose that twisted smile and lean in. His mouth was warm and slick, his tongue searching for an excuse to stay, and his grip on Edge’s hand tightened and refused to loosen. “Edge,” he breathed when they parted. And there was that bright blue-eyed boy that they had lost somewhere along the way, there he was looking for someone to guide him through it all. “I don’t—”

“It’s alright,” Edge insisted, because it was. It had to be. “Nobody has to know.”


End file.
